There was a brief period of frenzied panic. And when I say panic, I don't mean it lightly. I mean the breath-constricting, thought-disorienting, pulse-quickening state of agitation.
It started with Doobie surveying her room in dismay.
"I have less than 6 hours for my flight and I haven't even started packing yet!!" She wailed. I gingerely entered her room to survey the extent of crisis. And yes, the crisis was extensive.
There was a large pile in the centre of the room. It consisted of fresh clothes, laundry, socks and shoes, presents for friends and family, and about 20 pounds of chocolate, all balancing precariously on top of each other. Navigating oneself anywhere around the room required making a leap over the ever growing pile. In one corner of the room were two small suitcases, into which one ostensibly supposed that the entire pile was meant to somehow pack itself.
And so Doobie rolled up her sleeves and without further ado, started attacking the pile with renewed determination. As she continued to plug away at it, her progress was punctuated and accompanied by constant mutterings under her breath.
Rush rush rush, and soon enough (far too soon), it was time to go. So together we dragged the suitcases (each weighing about as much as ourselves) down to the road, and hailed a cab. Quickly I hugged her, packed her into the cab, and before I new it, she was off.
I breathed a sigh, feeling suddenly underwhelmed. The moment reminded me of having dropped Bobbis off in her cab, two weeks ago, as she headed off to Bombay. And having said goodbye to Ilajna three days ago, as she headed off to Toronto. And suddenly, as Doobs' cab disappeared around the corner, I realised I was alone tonight.
This is the second night I have ever spent an evening alone in my life. I know, I've counted. The other time was once in London about 4 years ago.
So naturally, when I got back to my apartment, I was somewhat out of sorts. I triple-locked the door, but it wasn't a concern about security, really. It was the odd silence that came from no one calling out 'helllo!!!' when I entered the apartment. And no one squabbling over what program to watch on the telly. Disconcerting, really.
"Are you scared?" Delta asked when he called.
"No, not really, it just feels weird." I couldn't pinpoint it exactly.
"Weird like as in scared weird?"
"No, not at the moment, but I promise if I see a roach or anything I'm going to come running over to yours even if it's the middle of the night." I knew I wouldn't see a roach or anything, but it was comforting to say that all the same.
Turns out, it wasn't so different from any other night after all. Watched a spot of telly, read a bit, checked my emails and scanned the web. When it got too quiet, I voiced my thoughts out loud, and the inanity of the situation cheered me up instantly.
And most importantly, I survived to tell the tale. Now I know, having done it twice before, that I can indeed survive a night or two by myself.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
A wriggle-hole in the visa net
I couldn't believe my eyes. I rubbed them vigorously and looked again at the screen. There it was, the list of citizenships requiring a visa for entrance into Bermuda.
And India was not on the list.
If you're American or European, the adventure of travel visas is probably not something you've had to deal with much, and perhaps you take unfettered travel for granted.
If you're Indian, you know that visas are the bane of your existence. You need a visa to go everywhere. In fact I'm surprised when I don't need a visa to travel from one state to the next in the US.
So I read the list of countries again. "Citizens of the following countries require visas to enter Bermuda:" it said. There was a long list of countries. I skipped straight to the 'I' portion of the list, scanning for India. It wasn't there. Unbelievable. Oddly suspicious, even. I scanned the rest of the list, just incase the country had been mis-spelled to start with a different letter. Nope, it simply wasn't there.
It might seem trite to you, but I feel compelled to repeat it again (and again, and again): Indians do not require a visa to enter Bermuda.
I'd love to say this is the triumphant bastion of Indian consular achievement. More likely, it's just a legacy remnant of the ex-commonwealth. But far be it from me to wallow in thoughts of lowly cynicism today. No, today is the day to celebrate the fact that there actually exists a country in the world where Indian tourists do not require a visa.
Which means, of course, that when we take the Bermuda cruise for Billy and Anneliese's wedding next summer, I won't be stuck alone on the cruise while everyone else attends the wedding in Bermuda.
And India was not on the list.
If you're American or European, the adventure of travel visas is probably not something you've had to deal with much, and perhaps you take unfettered travel for granted.
If you're Indian, you know that visas are the bane of your existence. You need a visa to go everywhere. In fact I'm surprised when I don't need a visa to travel from one state to the next in the US.
So I read the list of countries again. "Citizens of the following countries require visas to enter Bermuda:" it said. There was a long list of countries. I skipped straight to the 'I' portion of the list, scanning for India. It wasn't there. Unbelievable. Oddly suspicious, even. I scanned the rest of the list, just incase the country had been mis-spelled to start with a different letter. Nope, it simply wasn't there.
It might seem trite to you, but I feel compelled to repeat it again (and again, and again): Indians do not require a visa to enter Bermuda.
I'd love to say this is the triumphant bastion of Indian consular achievement. More likely, it's just a legacy remnant of the ex-commonwealth. But far be it from me to wallow in thoughts of lowly cynicism today. No, today is the day to celebrate the fact that there actually exists a country in the world where Indian tourists do not require a visa.
Which means, of course, that when we take the Bermuda cruise for Billy and Anneliese's wedding next summer, I won't be stuck alone on the cruise while everyone else attends the wedding in Bermuda.
Resolutions, for what they're worth
I'm not quite sure why I make resolutions for myself each year, given my poor track record for success. Still, they fill me with hope, I suppose. Anyways, no harm done in lofty aspirations, right?
Last year, I made three resolutions, which I wrote on a large yellow post-it and stuck it on my office closet at work. I figured that way I would see it every morning, and hopefully it would automatically get absorbed into my everyday life through some form of behavioural osmosis. What I'd forgotten to take into account is how little I actually look at my closet (and therefore at the post it). I guess that's what to blame for my little failures this year - the wrong place I stuck the post it.
Resolutions for 2007:
- Be healthier: dubious success. I mean, I quit my gym right at the beginning of 2007, probably a week after making the resolution. But then again I started walking to work, and on those days that I'm not accosted by giraffes, I feel I do make my life infinitesimally healthier. Also started drinking coffee through a straw, which works to my social detriment, but in the long run Simmer has promised me it makes for whiter teeth.
- Swear less: moderate success. I've curbed my swearing from external expletives to a little angry woman shouting in my head, which might very well one day explode, but for the benefit of the rest of the world yonder, I'm calm as a cucumber. I say 'moderate success' because the other day I was in Richie Rich's office and I clean forgot he was in there with me. I received an email of some consternation, and immediately shouted, "shite shite shite shite shite!"
There was a moment of silence. Then, "wow that's the first time I've heard you swear," Richie Rich commented. Which is testament to my success, I suppose, in its own muted way.
- Be more sensible: abject failure. There is no evidence over the past year of increased sensibleness (grown-upness?) from my side, instead I've come to further embrace the joys of insensibilities, which means this objective is off the agenda and therefore no longer relevant. Look how that worked out, a win-win.
Now what in the world am I going to resolve to accomplish (or fail to) in 2008?! I'm tempted to say 'learn Spanish', but given my track record, it does appear that if I make this my resolution then I likely won't accomplish it, and I really do want to learn Spanish.
A catch 22. Sigh.
Last year, I made three resolutions, which I wrote on a large yellow post-it and stuck it on my office closet at work. I figured that way I would see it every morning, and hopefully it would automatically get absorbed into my everyday life through some form of behavioural osmosis. What I'd forgotten to take into account is how little I actually look at my closet (and therefore at the post it). I guess that's what to blame for my little failures this year - the wrong place I stuck the post it.
Resolutions for 2007:
- Be healthier: dubious success. I mean, I quit my gym right at the beginning of 2007, probably a week after making the resolution. But then again I started walking to work, and on those days that I'm not accosted by giraffes, I feel I do make my life infinitesimally healthier. Also started drinking coffee through a straw, which works to my social detriment, but in the long run Simmer has promised me it makes for whiter teeth.
- Swear less: moderate success. I've curbed my swearing from external expletives to a little angry woman shouting in my head, which might very well one day explode, but for the benefit of the rest of the world yonder, I'm calm as a cucumber. I say 'moderate success' because the other day I was in Richie Rich's office and I clean forgot he was in there with me. I received an email of some consternation, and immediately shouted, "shite shite shite shite shite!"
There was a moment of silence. Then, "wow that's the first time I've heard you swear," Richie Rich commented. Which is testament to my success, I suppose, in its own muted way.
- Be more sensible: abject failure. There is no evidence over the past year of increased sensibleness (grown-upness?) from my side, instead I've come to further embrace the joys of insensibilities, which means this objective is off the agenda and therefore no longer relevant. Look how that worked out, a win-win.
Now what in the world am I going to resolve to accomplish (or fail to) in 2008?! I'm tempted to say 'learn Spanish', but given my track record, it does appear that if I make this my resolution then I likely won't accomplish it, and I really do want to learn Spanish.
A catch 22. Sigh.
A very merry Christmas (complete with a Santa)
This year, Doobs and I visited Mr. and Mrs. Pooks for Christmas. We figured a little get together over the holiday season, maybe a couple of presents, and just most importantly a weekend together at the Pooks'. We had NOT figured how the Pooks would embrace the season with such a fever of flurry and frenzy.
But suddenly there we were at the train station, and Mrs. Pooks leapt out of her car to pick us up - dressed like Santa no less. "Mrs. Pooks, we're so excited!" we exclaimed, giving her hugs.
"Oh there's more, let's quickly head home!"
And then when we got home, we were greeted with further festivities and frolic. There was wine to be drunk. And food to be barbecued. And cookies to be baked. And a gingerbread house to be built (my first ever, and I maintain that it was a masterpiece - albeit inedible).
And after we'd completed six hours of continuous ingestion and imbibation, there still remained more wine to be drunk. And more cookies to be eaten. And, most importantly, presents to be opened (!!!!).
So that when we were finally on the train back home the following day, we rubbed our bellies and sighed to ourselves in replete satisfaction. "What a lovely Christmas!"
"How nice of Mr. and Mrs. Pooks!"
And we could feel it sink in, what Christmas was all about (the friends, I mean, not the food), and how lucky we were to be a part of it.
But suddenly there we were at the train station, and Mrs. Pooks leapt out of her car to pick us up - dressed like Santa no less. "Mrs. Pooks, we're so excited!" we exclaimed, giving her hugs.
"Oh there's more, let's quickly head home!"
And then when we got home, we were greeted with further festivities and frolic. There was wine to be drunk. And food to be barbecued. And cookies to be baked. And a gingerbread house to be built (my first ever, and I maintain that it was a masterpiece - albeit inedible).
And after we'd completed six hours of continuous ingestion and imbibation, there still remained more wine to be drunk. And more cookies to be eaten. And, most importantly, presents to be opened (!!!!).
So that when we were finally on the train back home the following day, we rubbed our bellies and sighed to ourselves in replete satisfaction. "What a lovely Christmas!"
"How nice of Mr. and Mrs. Pooks!"
And we could feel it sink in, what Christmas was all about (the friends, I mean, not the food), and how lucky we were to be a part of it.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Geriatric charmer
Last night at the nursing home, we had arranged for a Frank Sinatra impersonator, you know, just to bring a bit of thrill and razzmatazz to the place for the holiday season. And believe me, it came as close to a rock concert as I could possibly imagine the place. There they were, all the residents, sitting up straight in their chairs, waving their arms, some even hooting and cheering.
When Sinatra had finished his last song, there were cries for an encore. After the requisite amount of fussing, he willingly obliged, and performed yet another one. "Let's do Pennies from Heaven," he suggested, and the entire audience swooned yet again.
The oldest resident there, Edith, is 102 years old. Age has brought her to lose all her eyesight, yet her mind still remains sharp as a razor, and still keeps me on my toes with her witty banter.
When Sinatra was done with his last song, Edith broke the silence with a shrill cry, "Frankie, I love you!! I LOVE YOU FRANKIE!! Will you stay with me tonight?!"
A stunned silence filled the room. The singer paused, not quite sure how to respond.
"Edith!" I said, in a tone which was meant to be mock reprimand, but which really came out as awe.
"What?!" she turned in my direction, "Can't an old lady also have some fun once in a while?!"
I hope we all grow old with as much spirit as Edith.
Most of the residents are women, and the Sinatra performer had them all swooning over his every move and smile. Charm poured out of him, along with one love song after the next. With each move, sighs of happiness and romantic reminiscence ensued throughout the elderly audience.
When Sinatra had finished his last song, there were cries for an encore. After the requisite amount of fussing, he willingly obliged, and performed yet another one. "Let's do Pennies from Heaven," he suggested, and the entire audience swooned yet again.
The oldest resident there, Edith, is 102 years old. Age has brought her to lose all her eyesight, yet her mind still remains sharp as a razor, and still keeps me on my toes with her witty banter.
When Sinatra was done with his last song, Edith broke the silence with a shrill cry, "Frankie, I love you!! I LOVE YOU FRANKIE!! Will you stay with me tonight?!"
A stunned silence filled the room. The singer paused, not quite sure how to respond.
"Edith!" I said, in a tone which was meant to be mock reprimand, but which really came out as awe.
"What?!" she turned in my direction, "Can't an old lady also have some fun once in a while?!"
I hope we all grow old with as much spirit as Edith.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Festivus for the Rest-of-us
This weekend, Delta and I invited the gang over to celebrate Festivus. The idea being some fine wine, delish food and an airing of grievances (which any good evening should have!). The morning of the party, Delta and I were still victims of our own inertia, sitting on the couch devoid of ideas for our menu.
After some serious bouts of debate and discussion, we settled on going Mexican (homemade guac, Chicken Adobo, bean salad), and created a painstaking shoping list. We headed over to the supermarket, and Delta watched in horror as I headed over to the shopping carts. "Do we really have to take a cart?!" For New York super markets are not built for manoeverability. But there's no getting around using a cart when you're shopping for 10 people. We had barely turned down the first aisle when Delta yelped, "I can't do this! The cart wheel won't turn properly and there's people bumping into me and there's no place to think and..." I seriously panicked that he might leave me alone there in the supermarket, but in a display of heroic effort, he pulled through in typical fashion.
The rest of the afternoon is a blurry memory of frenzied cooking and cleaning. So that when the first guest arrived, we had barely just sat down to rest and poured ourselves a celebratory glass of wine.
The evening itself proceeded exactly as we had hoped, as evidenced by the basic success factors that mark our parties:
- We plied everyone with food and drink (for what could be better than turgid guests)
- The jubilant revelry lasted well into the night (until a neighbour had to bang on our common wall, following the standard New York signal for shut up)
- The evening concluded with Ilajna doing some wild karaoke'ing at Keats (now doesn't that sound familiar!)
All in all, when you have to stay in bed till 2.30pm the next day just to recuperate, you know it's been a good festivus!
After some serious bouts of debate and discussion, we settled on going Mexican (homemade guac, Chicken Adobo, bean salad), and created a painstaking shoping list. We headed over to the supermarket, and Delta watched in horror as I headed over to the shopping carts. "Do we really have to take a cart?!" For New York super markets are not built for manoeverability. But there's no getting around using a cart when you're shopping for 10 people. We had barely turned down the first aisle when Delta yelped, "I can't do this! The cart wheel won't turn properly and there's people bumping into me and there's no place to think and..." I seriously panicked that he might leave me alone there in the supermarket, but in a display of heroic effort, he pulled through in typical fashion.
The rest of the afternoon is a blurry memory of frenzied cooking and cleaning. So that when the first guest arrived, we had barely just sat down to rest and poured ourselves a celebratory glass of wine.
The evening itself proceeded exactly as we had hoped, as evidenced by the basic success factors that mark our parties:
- We plied everyone with food and drink (for what could be better than turgid guests)
- The jubilant revelry lasted well into the night (until a neighbour had to bang on our common wall, following the standard New York signal for shut up)
- The evening concluded with Ilajna doing some wild karaoke'ing at Keats (now doesn't that sound familiar!)
All in all, when you have to stay in bed till 2.30pm the next day just to recuperate, you know it's been a good festivus!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Belly Club
Yesterday, we had a mini-reunion of sorts. Milo, Dub, Doobie, Ilajna, Bobbs and me.
This is how it all started. I logged into my email the other day, and had a little reminder pop up - 'Dubs Bday today!' it told me. I'm mortified to say, I hadn't spoken to Dub in more than a year, in fact I didn't even know if I still had his uptodate contact information. How do we let ourselves do this to our good friends?
I took a chance anyway and dropped him an email - "happy birthday, dub" I said, knowing it would come out of the blue for him. I had a response from him less than thirty seconds later: "thanks! it's been too long, let's meet!!". I was ecstatic. Maybe we let ourselves do this to our good friends precisely because we know our relationships can weather this.
So I sent out a note to the gang - guys, want to meet up, where else could it be but Keats. It took less than a minute to get a whole bunch of replies. Yes! Absolutely! Brilliant! Can't wait! It's been so long!
And so it came to be that yesterday, we all met each other again, some of us after more than a year. I couldn't stop hugging Dub when I saw him. And I couldn't stop asking him questions - they tumbled out of me in disorderly fashion, interrupting Dub's answers as he grappled to keep pace.
Milo and Doobie looked each other up and down, having met each other after months.
"You've put on weight."
"Oh, yeah? Well on a scale of 1-10 I'd rate you a 5."
And less than 30 seconds into their reunion, they slipped right back into the feisty balance they've always taken comfort in.
There's something so touching about meeting old friends again, and I could feel my heart brimming with happiness that spilled out through the goofy smile plastered across my face.
"We have to do this more often!" someone announced.
"Let's form a club!"
I looked over at Doobs and Milo. They were still arguing over who had undergone more physical change since they last saw each other.
"I know," I stepped in, trying to mitigate their argument. "Let's call ourselves the belly club. We're a belly friendly place."
Milo made a face. "I am NOT friendly with my belly. There is going to be no belly here."
But Doobie and Mrs. Pooks were already laughing, and the name was just going to stick. And so here we are, the Belly Club, all set up with monthly catch ups and all.
This is how it all started. I logged into my email the other day, and had a little reminder pop up - 'Dubs Bday today!' it told me. I'm mortified to say, I hadn't spoken to Dub in more than a year, in fact I didn't even know if I still had his uptodate contact information. How do we let ourselves do this to our good friends?
I took a chance anyway and dropped him an email - "happy birthday, dub" I said, knowing it would come out of the blue for him. I had a response from him less than thirty seconds later: "thanks! it's been too long, let's meet!!". I was ecstatic. Maybe we let ourselves do this to our good friends precisely because we know our relationships can weather this.
So I sent out a note to the gang - guys, want to meet up, where else could it be but Keats. It took less than a minute to get a whole bunch of replies. Yes! Absolutely! Brilliant! Can't wait! It's been so long!
And so it came to be that yesterday, we all met each other again, some of us after more than a year. I couldn't stop hugging Dub when I saw him. And I couldn't stop asking him questions - they tumbled out of me in disorderly fashion, interrupting Dub's answers as he grappled to keep pace.
Milo and Doobie looked each other up and down, having met each other after months.
"You've put on weight."
"Oh, yeah? Well on a scale of 1-10 I'd rate you a 5."
And less than 30 seconds into their reunion, they slipped right back into the feisty balance they've always taken comfort in.
There's something so touching about meeting old friends again, and I could feel my heart brimming with happiness that spilled out through the goofy smile plastered across my face.
"We have to do this more often!" someone announced.
"Let's form a club!"
I looked over at Doobs and Milo. They were still arguing over who had undergone more physical change since they last saw each other.
"I know," I stepped in, trying to mitigate their argument. "Let's call ourselves the belly club. We're a belly friendly place."
Milo made a face. "I am NOT friendly with my belly. There is going to be no belly here."
But Doobie and Mrs. Pooks were already laughing, and the name was just going to stick. And so here we are, the Belly Club, all set up with monthly catch ups and all.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Mars and Venus
Delta: [flipping through TV channels] there's nothing interesting on TV! Sigh.
Ficali: [excitedly] well that's okay, we can just sit and talk!
Delta: Talk? Again? I thought we did that this morning already.
Ficali: [excitedly] well that's okay, we can just sit and talk!
Delta: Talk? Again? I thought we did that this morning already.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Mutual Reassurance Committee
Delta and I have signed up for a 'fundamentals' course in photography at the New York Institute of Photography. We're really excited about it, and photography has become our raison-d'etre in the past month or so. Sometimes we recede into the inner depths of our dorkiness, and just sit on the couch discussing styles and lenses for hours. I shudder to think of what we might do once the course starts and we actually know what we're talking about.
Well, Delta has reason to do this, for he truly has a natural eye for capturing that pulse-quickening picture. I, on the other hand, am banking on this course to arouse in me the wells of untapped artistic potential which I'm convinced exist in the nether regions of my mind.
As we progress through the course (and assumingly improve), I might use this blog to publish a picture of two which we deem worthy of our collective self-admiration. When you see a picture which might resemble such, dear reader, that would be your cue to leave a compliment on the blog.
This way you assure me of my artistic abilities, I assure you of your discerning tastes in art, and there we are, the Mutual Reassurance Committee.
Well, Delta has reason to do this, for he truly has a natural eye for capturing that pulse-quickening picture. I, on the other hand, am banking on this course to arouse in me the wells of untapped artistic potential which I'm convinced exist in the nether regions of my mind.
As we progress through the course (and assumingly improve), I might use this blog to publish a picture of two which we deem worthy of our collective self-admiration. When you see a picture which might resemble such, dear reader, that would be your cue to leave a compliment on the blog.
This way you assure me of my artistic abilities, I assure you of your discerning tastes in art, and there we are, the Mutual Reassurance Committee.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
15 minutes of fame
For the past three days, I've been at the Mohegan Sun Casino Resort in Connecticut. For yes, that is exactly the kind of exciting place that we hold our work offsites. You wouldn't have thought this place is up my alley, for I'm not much of a gambler myself (although I did win $20 at Atlantic City this past summer, ahem).
A typical work event, conferences during the day, and happy hours, dinners and socialisation in the evening. Except this year, a group of employees had got together and secretly formed a band as surprise entertainment for everyone. I knew they had been rehearsing for the past couple of months, but nothing prepared me for how good they actually were.
The evening before their performance, I was speaking to one of the band members. "So how come you don't have any girls in your band?!" I asked. Being the HR bod and all, I just wanted to make sure they hadn't been exclusionary.
"Glad you brought that up, we actually do need a female background voice for one of the songs - you wanna do that for us?"
I found myself backpaddling rapidly.
"I can't sing! I'm tone-deaf!" I blurted.
"Doesn't matter, it's just a small part and it's really easy, we'll show you."
Sigh.
They pretended I had to be formally interviewed to participate in their band. They sat me down on a stool in the band room, and all stood scrutinizingly across from me.
"What previous experience do you have with rock bands?" the band leader asked.
"Erm, I used to date the drummer of the school band in high school?"
"Okay that's fine, you're in."
And thus it came to be that I found myself back in the days of Keats karaoke. In truth, I had only one line. Each time the lead singer finished the chorus, I had to sing "gimme, gimme". And that was it. But boy, just standing up on stage in the limelight, with the crowds cheering, there it was, my fifteen minutes of fame. 
A typical work event, conferences during the day, and happy hours, dinners and socialisation in the evening. Except this year, a group of employees had got together and secretly formed a band as surprise entertainment for everyone. I knew they had been rehearsing for the past couple of months, but nothing prepared me for how good they actually were.
The evening before their performance, I was speaking to one of the band members. "So how come you don't have any girls in your band?!" I asked. Being the HR bod and all, I just wanted to make sure they hadn't been exclusionary.
"Glad you brought that up, we actually do need a female background voice for one of the songs - you wanna do that for us?"
I found myself backpaddling rapidly.
"I can't sing! I'm tone-deaf!" I blurted.
"Doesn't matter, it's just a small part and it's really easy, we'll show you."
Sigh.
They pretended I had to be formally interviewed to participate in their band. They sat me down on a stool in the band room, and all stood scrutinizingly across from me.
"What previous experience do you have with rock bands?" the band leader asked.
"Erm, I used to date the drummer of the school band in high school?"
"Okay that's fine, you're in."
And thus it came to be that I found myself back in the days of Keats karaoke. In truth, I had only one line. Each time the lead singer finished the chorus, I had to sing "gimme, gimme". And that was it. But boy, just standing up on stage in the limelight, with the crowds cheering, there it was, my fifteen minutes of fame.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
A holiday jingle
Unbeknownst to me, a hole had gradually formed in the right pocket of my winter coat.
Unsuspectingly, I dropped three quarters into my pocket the other day. Silently, the quarters slipped single file through the hole making their way into the nether depths of my coat lining.
I might have actually never noticed, having blissfully forgotten all about the quarters. Except that this morning, as I walked to work, I noticed a faint jangle in time with my gait. At first I thought I must be imagining it. When the jingling sound persisted despite my attempts to shake it from my head, I thought perhaps it was some roadside music. But a quick glance around confirmed this to be unfounded as well.
I stopped. The jangle stopped.
Took a step. One quick jangle. And then silence.
Took two steps. A bunch of jangles. And then silence.
Dammit I thought. I put my hands in my jeans pockets. Nothing. Put my hands in my coat pockets. Nothing again. And then, as I readjusted my coat, I realised that the sound was emanating from somewhere in the coat itself. So I raised different sections of the coat to my ear, shaking each section gently to try and exactly pinpoint the location of the jangle. All this while still leaving my coat on, since it was bitterly cold.
I shudder to think of the sight I made. Luckily, in New YOrk, there's never reason to be embarrassed. There's always someone even weirder.
So in this manner, through some painstaking coat shaking, I realised that there are three quarters nestled noisily in the bottom hem of coat, inside the lining. Nothing to do but go on jangling to and from work all winter, it appears. Just my luck.
I would have been less troubled, perhaps, if they weren't actually quarters - which we collect so dearly for our laundry.
Unsuspectingly, I dropped three quarters into my pocket the other day. Silently, the quarters slipped single file through the hole making their way into the nether depths of my coat lining.
I might have actually never noticed, having blissfully forgotten all about the quarters. Except that this morning, as I walked to work, I noticed a faint jangle in time with my gait. At first I thought I must be imagining it. When the jingling sound persisted despite my attempts to shake it from my head, I thought perhaps it was some roadside music. But a quick glance around confirmed this to be unfounded as well.
I stopped. The jangle stopped.
Took a step. One quick jangle. And then silence.
Took two steps. A bunch of jangles. And then silence.
Dammit I thought. I put my hands in my jeans pockets. Nothing. Put my hands in my coat pockets. Nothing again. And then, as I readjusted my coat, I realised that the sound was emanating from somewhere in the coat itself. So I raised different sections of the coat to my ear, shaking each section gently to try and exactly pinpoint the location of the jangle. All this while still leaving my coat on, since it was bitterly cold.
I shudder to think of the sight I made. Luckily, in New YOrk, there's never reason to be embarrassed. There's always someone even weirder.
So in this manner, through some painstaking coat shaking, I realised that there are three quarters nestled noisily in the bottom hem of coat, inside the lining. Nothing to do but go on jangling to and from work all winter, it appears. Just my luck.
I would have been less troubled, perhaps, if they weren't actually quarters - which we collect so dearly for our laundry.
A zebra in leopard spots
Delta and I went wetsuit shopping. I mean, how often does one get to say that! But then again, this is all part and parcel of the fact that we're going to the Galapagos, and how often does one get to say that.
Mr. Pooks recommended a discount diving store to us, so on Sunday, possibly the coldest day yet this century, we buried ourselves as far as possible inside our winter coats and shuffled slowly against the Siberian winds to the diving store.
"We're here for shorty wetsuits," we announced excitedly to the person at the counter.
I even giggled when I said it, the words just sounded so alien in my mouth. Soon enough, we had a couple of them in our hands.
Delta went in first to try his on. A few minutes later and he was back out. "Perfect fit!" he affirmed with satisfaction.
Then I went in. The last time I wore a wetsuit was when I went waterskiing in London when I was 5. And I think the must have given me an adult suit then, because I somehow have memories of the suit being quite loose. Which this one most definitely was not.
I mean, how do you make a skin tight suit, which is really just a rubber skin, and expect a girl to pull this up past her hips? I put my legs in, pulled the suit up my body, everything was going fine, and then suddenly it jerked to a halt.
I tugged.
Nothing.
Harder tug.
Still nothing.
Yep, don't you know it. The wetsuit would not get up past the old posterior.
"You okay in there?" Delta called, hearing my grunts of effort.
"Yes. Just. It. Won't. Get. Up. Past. My. Butt."
And just then I gave a tremendous heave-ho where both my arms pulled with concerted effort and suddenly the suit swooshed up the rest of the way, and I was inside in, this new seal skin on my body. I stood there for a moment, panting from the exertion.
And then I engaged myself in the arduous task of peeling it back off again.
But what can I say. For now, I own a wetsuit. Who woulda' thunk.
Mr. Pooks recommended a discount diving store to us, so on Sunday, possibly the coldest day yet this century, we buried ourselves as far as possible inside our winter coats and shuffled slowly against the Siberian winds to the diving store.
"We're here for shorty wetsuits," we announced excitedly to the person at the counter.
I even giggled when I said it, the words just sounded so alien in my mouth. Soon enough, we had a couple of them in our hands.
Delta went in first to try his on. A few minutes later and he was back out. "Perfect fit!" he affirmed with satisfaction.
Then I went in. The last time I wore a wetsuit was when I went waterskiing in London when I was 5. And I think the must have given me an adult suit then, because I somehow have memories of the suit being quite loose. Which this one most definitely was not.
I mean, how do you make a skin tight suit, which is really just a rubber skin, and expect a girl to pull this up past her hips? I put my legs in, pulled the suit up my body, everything was going fine, and then suddenly it jerked to a halt.
I tugged.
Nothing.
Harder tug.
Still nothing.
Yep, don't you know it. The wetsuit would not get up past the old posterior.
"You okay in there?" Delta called, hearing my grunts of effort.
"Yes. Just. It. Won't. Get. Up. Past. My. Butt."
And just then I gave a tremendous heave-ho where both my arms pulled with concerted effort and suddenly the suit swooshed up the rest of the way, and I was inside in, this new seal skin on my body. I stood there for a moment, panting from the exertion.
And then I engaged myself in the arduous task of peeling it back off again.
But what can I say. For now, I own a wetsuit. Who woulda' thunk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
